


Taking Root in the Soil

by mia6363



Series: Cupcakes and Bullets [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Badass Finstock, Brief and casual descriptions of being a hitman, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Magical Realism, Past Abuse, Vengeful Violence, Violence against antagonists, Weddings, Werewolf bonding/Wedding ceremonies, yeah you read those two right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 12:40:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10101197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia6363/pseuds/mia6363
Summary: Finstock was good at two things: killing people and cooking. Spilling blood made him enough money to buy a bakery out in the country in a little town called Beacon Hills. The flowers are nice, the people even nicer, but he has to admit that the town is just a little...weirdeven for him.





	

The tall lamps at the train station sputtered with anxiety.

Kira Yukimura worried the sleeves of her jacket. The lights throbbed in time to her rapid heartbeat until the train rolled into the station through the witching-hour fog. The doors opened. Kira twisted past frozen figures of humans who’d never heard of and never _would_ hear of Beacon Hills, the sanctuary for all those beasts that time forgot. 

She went to the last car. The moment she took a seat the lights blinked, the train shot forward, and the passengers bloomed into motion. Yawns were swallowed, book pages were turned, and eyes were rubbed. 

Peter never paid any attention to them. He teased Kira for letting her eyes wander as he regaled her with a story about some other Pack and personal politics. 

Kira couldn’t help it; she liked watching people be fascinating even in the mundane. She liked painting her own pictures around them; depending on her mood the strangers would remain in the unknown or sometimes would be hidden adventurers. Peter had no patience for humans, but Kira could watch them all day. 

That morning was no different despite her traveling alone for the first time. Peter _said_ it was because she was ready, but Kira was certain that it had more to do with the fact it was his and Stiles’s third anniversary. She blew a stray lock of hair out of her face. 

It was a two-hour ride to Grand Central Station followed by a quick dash to the 42nd street station to catch the six. 

Peter had handpicked Kira’s outfit down to the shade of her stockings. Her blazer and skirt were sharp when paired with her modest heels, but when she clutched her bag and waited for the train she felt like a child who’d raided her mother’s closet. 

Out of habit she took the last car and went for the first empty seat next to a man reading a book. There hadn’t been a certain draw to that particular spot, just a pragmatic solution—and yet that seat proved to be much more important than chance. 

The man next to her had a warm aura. It was intimate warmth, like the smell of an old, hand-sewn quilt. Kira’s shoulders relaxed and = she became less unsure of the auctions she’d be attending on the Hale Pack’s behalf. 

The man read a worn paperback that was thick with small print. His dark hair was untamable and his eyes were alert despite harsh lines and bags under them. He rolled his lower lip between teeth that were too big for his face yet suited him perfectly. The subway whined as it turned and the man, without batting an eye, spoke. 

“If staring at me makes you less nervous, go right ahead and look.” 

Horrible shame bubbled through Kira’s body and her face was so _hot_. She flinched and clenched her fists, tearing her eyes off him as the lights flickered. 

“Sorry, I’m—I’m sorry.” 

“Hey.” He turned towards her a bit, closing his book after he folded the page to mark his place. “I’m not offended. This is what it looks like when I’m trying to be funny before noon.” Kira spared him a glance and felt her lips curl at his exaggerated pained expression that quickly transformed into a grin. “You caught me before I’ve had coffee. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.” 

“I don’t know,” Kira straightened, “you seem plenty energetic to me.” 

He laughed, loud and stuttered like it surprised him. They both sat back angled toward each other so that their legs were pressed together thigh-to-thigh and knee-to-knee. 

“What’s got you so nervous?” 

The man asked it with no hidden strings. Peter asked so he could tell her to stop while her mother asked with the undercurrent of damage control. He had no reason to dissect her, as far as he as concerned the flickering lights were due to wear-and-tear, not a Kitsune trying to wear Peter’s Hale’s confidence. 

“My boss is sending me alone to represent him at an auction.” Kira swallowed. “I’ve never had to be alone with the kind of people on his level.”

“Let me guess, old-as-fuck-money and just a _tad_ out of touch?” He wiggled his fingers by his temple on the word _touch._ Kira snorted and his grin widened. “Eh, don’t worry about those chumps. They barely have time to look up from excel spreadsheets that keep track of their money.” He nudged her shoulder, the crow’s-feet at corner of his eyes deepening. The lights stopped flickering as the man’s smile softened. “Did you have a long commute? You’re pretty awake for the hour.” 

Kira nodded and unclenched her fists. 

“I’m out in the countryside.” 

“Oh? Where from?”

“It’s a small town, no one’s heard of it.” 

“Try me,” the man winked and the lights went off for several seconds before coming back to life. “I’ve been all over.” 

It was a challenge; she could hear it like a snapping branch in the dark. It was dangerous, though she was sure he didn’t know it—but a part of her hoped he would recognize the name. Her heart raced, she drew in a breath, and answered the challenge against every rule ever written. 

“Beacon Hills.” 

The man’s smile faded for a brief moment before he knocked his knee against hers. 

“You got me. Haven’t heard of it. But,” he snapped his fingers, “that’s not the point. Let me guess, it’s really pretty. Lots of green and trees?” 

Kira pulled out her phone and came across a picture of her yard, the wide expanse of grass with weeping willows that swayed in the wind. She felt her chest swell when his eyes widened. His lips parted and Kira whipped through more photos. 

“Stop.” The man whined. “You’re killing me. It’s too beautiful.” Kira laughed and he dragged his hands down his face. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Those elbows you’ll have to rub with, they’d kill to live in a place like that. They cry themselves to sleep dreaming of living in a place like Beacon Hills.” 

He was striking, like provocative graffiti. 

“You think so?” 

“Absolutely. I would. I’ll be crying tonight.” 

They shared quiet laughter and when the next stop was announced Kira was saddened to hear it was hers. She gathered her bags and stood as the train slowed with a metallic shrill.

“I have to go but,” she didn’t know what to do with her hands. She wanted to touch him, to show him what his conversation had done and how it helped. “Thank you. So much. Have a great day, okay?” 

The doors opened and she darted out without a glance behind her. It was the start of a tradition—one that happened without either party acknowledging it aloud. When Kira returned alone after a successful haul she hurried to the last car and smiled when she saw him. He glanced up and waved her over to next to him. 

He had a harsh voice that didn’t match his tranquil aura at all, and though his stories were seeped in comedic annoyance at the city, he was always quick to smile. He had laugh lines and loved to cook. He had a pair of hand knitted gloves with holes but he refused to wear another pair. He talked a lot, but would keep track of the stops so he could ask Kira about herself before she had to leave. 

As time went on it became too late to ask him his name. Kira meant to ask the first few times but all her plans vanished once they started talking. He remained The Man on the Train.

“Kira.” Kira refused to look at Peter as he stood with her in Grand Central Station. “ _Kira_ , you’re enamored and you don’t even know his _name_?” 

She flushed up to her ears. She dodged Peter’s fingers that went to pinch her side. 

“There wasn’t a good time to ask.” She didn’t need to Peter to tell her how ridiculous it was, how it had gotten out of hand. If she arrived early she’d let the train pass until it was the right one. He saved her a seat and if he couldn’t he’d stand with her so they could sway with the train together. Kira took a deep breath as the lights from the train lit up the tunnel. “Okay. I can do this.” 

She was going to ask for his name. She was going to get a phone number and they could meet outside of a twenty-minute train ride. 

Peter agreed to act like a stranger, and when the doors opened Kira strode through with a smile—only for her face to fall. Peter must have smelled it, the shock of their routine broken. 

“What is it?” He grabbed her hand and her face must have been worrisome because Peter squeezed her fingers. His voice lost all traces of smirking jest. “Kira, what is it?” 

“He’s not here.” She shook herself and hoped the color returned to her cheeks. “He must be busy today.” 

Peter let it go, a rarity for him. No matter how many times she returned, the Man on the Train was never there to join her. 

::::

Finstock was good at two things: killing people and cooking. 

He stood in a kitchen and glanced around at the pots and pans that will now never be used. Chris grunted from the dining room, done planting the evidence around the body. Suicide, the police would say. Chris and Finstock would know better.

“You done, Bobby?” 

“Yup.” 

Chris stalked in. He wore a leather jacket and dark sunglasses like a cliché. Finstock wanted to at least take the spices with him, but he resisted, keeping his rubber gloves on as he delicately moved around the floating island and knife rack. 

“What’s the hold up?”

Finstock rolled his eyes. 

“You ever hear of stopping to smell the roses, Chris?” 

They left the nice house in the Village and soon became just two guys in the bustling city. The squelch of rubber gloves in his pocket made him feel old and tired.

The kitchen was a sanctuary. Finstock’s earliest memories were of him skinning carrots and potatoes with his mom and grandma. Without them he never would have developed his respect for taste, and that taking the time to make something from scratch was worth it. 

Killing though—that paid exponentially more than cooking ever could. He was good; he had more money than he could hope to spend. His knees would pop in the morning. The last thing he wanted to become was a grizzled stoic man who rarely shaved and put on seven layers of man-pain every morning. He’d seen it happen to his peers, and by God, Finstock wouldn’t lose his love of laughter. 

His mind briefly wandered to the girl on the subway, how she laughed and would lean her knee against his. 

“I quit.”

Chris stopped. 

“You what?”

He gutted his apartment, returned a bunch of vinyl’s he’d borrowed from Chris, King of the Mangst, and set out to buy a bakery. One cash payment and the completion of the weirdest paperwork he’d ever seen, and Finstock had a house in the woods and a bakery on the Main Street of Beacon Hills. 

“Look,” Finstock peeled apples effortlessly with his favorite knife as two kids stared at him. “I haven’t been on a job interview in years and I haven’t ever given one so you probably know more than me when it comes to this song-and-dance.” It was late and Finstock needed to be back at four-thirty in the morning for the grand opening. “Do either of you have legitimate interest in baking?” 

Two kids had shown up for the _Help Wanted_ sign, a boy and a girl. The boy ducked his head. 

“I do. I do a lot of c-cooking at my house. I’m just average though, I’d like to get better.” 

Finstock nodded. He cut out the apple core and tossed it into the compost bucket. The girl jutted her chin out when he glanced at her. 

“I don’t know much about cooking but I can learn,” Finstock watched her eyes wander, the tightness at her lips betraying her, “I’ll be passionate—”

“You don’t need to fake an interest in cooking. There’s no shame in taking a job for money. I’ve done it plenty of times. All I care about is that you work hard.” Finstock pointed to the boy. “You’ll be looking to learn?” 

The boy glanced at his companion before nodding. 

“Yes, sir.”

“And you,” Finstock moved his finger to the girl, “want money?”

She deflated, her eyes glassy as she frowned. 

“Yes.”

“Great!” Finstock clapped his hands together and sent flecks of apple viscera flying. He moved to the sink, washed his hands, and dried them off on his jeans. He turned back to the kids and their slack jaws. “You’re hired. Store hours are six to four, morning shift is from five-thirty to two-thirty, and the closing shift goes from eight to five. You guys can alternate but the morning shift is when I’ll be able to teach you some moves in the kitchen.” He held out his hand, and the girl shook it first. “I’m Bobby Finstock. Call me anything, just not _sir_ or _Mr. Finstock_. I’m old enough as it is.” 

“Erica Reyes,” the girl whispered. 

Finstock shook the boy’s hand next, whose grip was gentler. 

“Isaac Lahey.” 

“Pleasure to meet you both. We start tomorrow. I’m sure I’m forgetting a bunch of shit I _should_ be covering, but I’m new at this _boss_ thing. Good?” 

Isaac and Erica shared another glance and Finstock felt a momentary flicker of panic. No one else had come and he needed the extra hands. 

“Yeah.” Erica grinned at him. “Sounds great. We’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Beacon Hills was an odd town. Beautiful—stunning, really—but odd. Finstock felt like he was drowning in infinite shades of _green_ and lack of urban noise. That, and the small local government was very hands on with the new residents. 

Sure enough, a gift basket was waiting for him on his doorstep. It was filled with nuts, chocolates, and dried herbs. The card had script scrawled across it that read: _Welcome to the neighborhood! If you need anything or have any questions to help you settle in, don’t hesitate to call!_

A phone number followed with a cheery signature of _Sincerely, Assistant Mayor Stiles Stilinski._

Over the month when Finstock officially moved into Beacon Hills, the Assistant Mayor visited at least once a week. The first time he’d dropped by to help Finstock with the crazy paperwork—a bunch of bizarre by-laws about borders and massive inclusivity and Finstock had to interrupt the little motor-mouth several times with a, “Fine, _fine_ , where do I sign?” 

After the papers were signed the Assistant Mayor stuck around for a few hours and helped him unpack. He was a tall young man with an odd complexion, smooth skin that was tinted grey. If he weren’t so energetic Finstock would have asked if he was ill. 

His hands were ice-cold and he winked at Finstock’s flinch. 

_“Pardon the hands, that’s just the ghoul in me.”_

Odd. Not unpleasant, just odd. 

Moving from a life of killing for money to normal society was a trial in itself. Finstock was confident in his clean record, but he wasn’t used to the mundane like _meeting the neighbors_ or _accommodating regular customers_. Finstock knew how to blend in to get closer to a target, but now he wasn’t blending, just existing. 

Luckily the bakery kept him moving enough to ignore any existential dread. The week was a brutal haze of high temperatures and brown sugar. Isaac was a fast learner and would bloom under the slightest praise. Erica knew the entire town so she worked the tips out of anyone who walked through the door. 

“Pinch the dough like this,” Finstock demonstrated then stepped back to watch Isaac copy him with steady hands. “Great, you’re great. Keep it up, kid.” 

Finstock made a big breakfast for Isaac on his break and he thought the kid was going to cry. His hand shook when he took the plate of steaming eggs and croissants. Before Finstock’s long break he made Erica her lunch and her hug hurt his ribs but made him smile all the same. It felt right, despite the chaos.

The first week was touch-and-go, sprinting and slow drags where Finstock would trade stories with Isaac and Erica as he showed them how to make different flowers with icing. 

It was Isaac’s turn to make the playlist and Erica had just filled up her thermos with fresh-brewed coffee. Al Green crooned over the speakers and Finstock hummed along under his breath as he decorated cupcakes with tiny yellow stars against the blue icing. He swayed his hips and the front door opened as he finished filling the display in the window. 

“Good morning, Mr. Hale,” Erica drawled in her smoky voice. “Finally made your way over, huh?”

Finstock glanced over at the new arrival. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes at Mr. Hale’s crisp suit and how he typed away on his phone without looking at Erica. He was going to make a sign, but knowing Mr. Hale types, he would just ignore it. He _almost_ went back to the display, he _almost_ missed the woman behind Mr. Hale—but thankfully Finstock’s eyes caught on her and refused to let go. 

The Girl on the Train stared back at him with wide, brown eyes. 

Finstock felt like the wind had been knocked out of him and he almost dropped his tray of unfrosted cupcakes. He clambered with the tray and shoved it onto the counter by Erica. 

_“Oh my God!”_

They both exclaimed. Finstock grinned so wide it hurt his face and she flew forward, the counter stopping her. 

“I didn’t see you, you stopped coming—”

“I know,” Finstock moved past Erica and she followed him, on the other side of the divide. “I was moving here.” 

He touched Isaac’s shoulders, keeping him still so he could move around the decorating station until he got to the small door that separated customers from the rest of the bakery. The woman met him there and their hands bumped together painfully as they both tried to pull the door. She blushed and pulled her hands away. 

“I thought you were gone.” 

Finstock pulled the door open and they both wouldn’t stop smiling like lunatics. 

“You were right about this town. It is beautiful.” 

She nodded and took a deep breath. 

“What’s your name?”

Finstock laughed and doubled over until he was hoarse. He wiped his eyes and held out his hand. 

“Bobby Finstock.” 

The Girl on the Train took his hand. A small static shock made Finstock’s index finger twitch. He was aware that Mr. Hale, Isaac, and Erica were all staring, but he didn’t care. Her smile seemed to light up the entire train, her nerves were put at ease with playful jokes, and she made him rush to catch the last car of the right train. 

She smiled and the lights brightened. 

“Kira Yukimura. It’s nice to see you.”

“Please,” Finstock shook her hand firmly. “The pleasure is all mine.” 

::::

The Lounge was exactly what it claimed to be. Stiles pushed the doors open the moment his watch hit six. He shivered off the chill that came from traveling through the ether and tugged off his bowtie. He cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, and shook out his arms with a dramatic exhale. 

Boyd snorted from the bar. 

Incense burned and the wood was a dark cherry that would creak with centuries-old whispers. Without a word Boyd poured sparkling cider over ice into a scotch glass. He slid it over to Stiles and leaned across the bar. 

“Peter and Kira are in the Mobile Room.”

“Thanks.”

He threw down a few dollars and moseyed through the general sitting area to one of the four offshoots—the Mobile Room. It was cozy, just four leather armchairs around a marble table. The name of the room came from the bits of sea glass that spun from the ceiling and cast muted colors on all who sat below. 

Stiles felt warmer just by looking at his boyfriend, his long legs stretched out to rest on Kira’s knees. His skin, frigid and grey, loosened and he sighed with relief. Peter straightened, gently moving his legs off of Kira’s. 

“Hello, darling.” Peter drawled, the words poisoned honey that dripped from his lips. Stiles slid into his lap and kissed him all the same, taking his time to taste the desire and syrupy affection that lingered just beneath the surface. When he pulled back Peter’s eyes shone bright blue and the tip of his nose was pink. His breath was hot and trembling against Stiles’s lips. “You missed me.”

“Eh.” Stiles shrugged. “Not really.” He got a pinch for that, but Peter’s hands remained on his sides and bled warmth that Stiles took greedily. He wiggled and went to greet Kira—only to pause. She had her knees hugged to her chest. “Kira, are you okay?”

“Mm?” She blinked her eyes back into focus, the colors from the mobiles splashing over her face. “I’m fine.” 

Peter smiled against Stiles’s neck. 

“Kira is just in shock. The Man from the Train has returned and his name is Bobby Finstock.” 

“ _What_?” Stiles yelped. Kira jumped, her legs slipping from her grip. “The Man on the Train is the new guy in town? No shit?” Kira nodded and Stiles pumped his fist. “Well, that’s awesome! Isn’t that awesome?” 

Kira covered her face with her hands. 

“Yes—no—yes—it’s complicated.”

Peter chuckled. 

“It’s quite simple, Kira. You get to see your friendly stranger only now he’s no longer a stranger and you’ll be forced to stop being a voyeur.” Kira flushed red between her fingers and sunk further into her chair. “This is a lesson for you to quit staring at people.”

Kira groaned. Stiles sipped his cider and let the bubbles pop against his tongue. 

“He’s definitely an interesting fellow. _Way_ older than he looks.” Peter hummed, encouraging him on. “I mean, he said he’d never seen our standard paperwork all the other times he’d bought buildings in the past.” Stiles smacked his lips together. “That means the last time this guy was around there hadn’t been ward ordinances and zoning laws for beings like us.” Stiles went still. “I mean, the only kind of person I can think of that fits the bill is a wizard.” 

A _wizard_ in their little Beacon Hills hideaway. Stiles hadn’t thought he’d ever meet one; they were very rare and often had long cycles of lives. Finstock, who’d signed the papers with a, _“Kids these days and all their questions,”_ had made Stiles do a double-take because _whoa._

“I would doubt you, but…” Peter trailed off. “I haven’t tasted _anything_ like it. His recipes took time, more time than most have.” Peter reached out to rub his thumb along Kira’s cheek. “How lucky, Kira. You stumbled upon one of the rarest creatures on living record.” 

Kira frowned and both Peter and Stiles reached out to smooth it out with their fingers. 

“It’s just—is it disrespectful to say that he didn’t seem magical at all? All the times I talked to him I never suspected he was anything other than human.” 

“Aw, chin up, foxy.” Stiles swirled his cider and the blocks of ice clinked against the glass. “There’s no way that you would have been able to tell without him _wanting_ you to know.” 

Kira squeezed Stiles’s fingers and more warmth pulsed from her until Stiles was the warmest he’d been all day. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against Peter’s shoulder. He didn’t blame the wizard for settling in Beacon Hills. It was a beautiful place where beautiful friends waited to be made. 

::::

The Sheriff had been in Beacon Hills for as long as anyone cared to remember—and he wandered the lands before people _could_ remember. In all his existence he’d never tasted _anything_ like the roasted pear and blue cheese tarts at Bobby’s Bakery. 

“One of these days I’m going to find a bell that works on you, Sheriff.” 

Bobby Finstock shook his head with a bright, crooked grin. The Sheriff had traveled through the shadows of ether, which meant he never had to open the door that rung the cheery bell. 

It was a small building; only two tables and chairs were able to fit inside for customers. At one of the tables tucked in the corner sat Isaac Lahey. He smiled at the Sheriff, a thin fae-wisp that always made him think of Claudia. Erica stood at the counter, nursing a cup of coffee. 

“Mornin’, Sheriff.” 

“Good morning, Erica.’ 

It was still early enough for the Sheriff to be fuzzy around the edges, his glamour not quite solid. He made his way to the display case, eyeing all of that day’s treats as Mr. Finstock bumped open the dividing door with his hip. 

“I know, I know.” He balanced a steaming plate on his hand heaped with eggs, toast, and jam with a cup in the other. He served Isaac before he turned back to the Sheriff. “Your favorites aren’t here. The more exotic flavors can be intimidating for the unadventurous. That, and I ran out of blue cheese.” He went back through the dividing door and pulled a tray fresh off the rack that made the Sheriff’s teeth _ache_ for a taste. “Black olive goat cheese biscuits. I suggest having them with a side of our blackberry jam.” 

Finstock grinned and the Sheriff pulled out his wallet. 

“You’re a true connoisseur, Mr. Finstock.” 

The baker was an odd fellow. His ears flushed red at the earned compliment but his tone never lost its vinegar sting. 

“I just know what you like, Sheriff.” 

“No.” The Sheriff smiled as he bit into the biscuit. “You know what everyone likes.” 

The Sheriff hadn’t met a wizard before, though he’d heard stories. They were an eccentric bunch, beings of Old Time tended to be. From what he heard, their power and knowledge was frightening. Their long lives made their view of morality divert from what was considered normal. 

“Here, I wanted to show you something, Erica.”

Mr. Finstock waved her over to a tray of cupcakes and piping bags. There was no way to know just how many lives the wizard had lived, but clearly his passion remained in food and those who helped him achieve great flavors. He made grandiose gestures with his hands, which made Erica’s impassive expression crack into a smile. 

“Thank you, Mr. Finstock.” 

Finstock waved his hand, not turning around to face him as he showed Erica a new icing design. 

“Not a problem, Sheriff.” 

With a tip of his proverbial hat, the Sheriff turned and walked back through the ether to City Hall. The prickles of delight lingered on his tongue. The flavor’s memory remained and brought warmth to the Sheriff’s ice-cold skin. 

::::

“Kira.” Noshiko never raised her voice in Kira’s life. She didn’t need to in order to make Kira shrink away. “Focus.” 

“Okay—I mean, I will.” 

When Kira wasn’t pouring over texts and meticulously translating with Peter she trained for control with her mother. She felt like a grain of sand facing a tsunami of power and history as her all nine hundred years of her mother drew her sword. 

“Again.”

Kira bowed her head. Her skin stung and her vision blurred as she flew forward. 

Hours later, still aching, Kira pushed her shopping cart down the produce aisle. She was left feeling raw and overwhelmed because the spare praise still felt undeserved and heavy with centuries of judgment. While most wouldn’t think of Peter as judgment-free, compared to Kira’s mother he was. She turned the corner to see Finstock inspecting some apples.

Even though second ago Kira sighed with exhaustion; electricity sprang to her fingertips just at the sight of him. The fluorescent lights flickered and made Finstock look up from his fruit and meet her gaze. 

“Oh, hey!” He jogged over with a wide and easy grin. “You’re out late-night shopping too, huh?” The lights throbbed in time to Kira’s heartbeat. His cart was full with herbs, fruits, and brown sugar. His aura was still so warm, like a blanket Kira wanted to curl up with. She realized she hadn’t answered Finstock’s question, but he continued as she scrambled for words. “I miss you at the bakery.”

“You do?” 

Kira flushed at Finstock’s insulted frown. 

“Of course! I know you’re busy, but still.”

He leaned his elbows on his shopping cart handles. The wheels squealed under the extra weight and the cart banged against Kira’s. As he quickly straightened his posture, Kira couldn’t help but think his disguise was flawless. She still had trouble seeing his true age the way everyone else did. 

“I’ll stop by more, I promise.” 

“You don’t have to.” Finstock’s cheeks broke out in faint, pink splotches and his smile tightened. “I was just thinking out loud. You’re the only familiar face I got around here.” 

His shoulders dipped forward and Kira reached out to touch his arm without thinking. She didn’t have to feel the static at her fingertips, seeing Finstock jump was enough. 

“I meant it. It’s just been busy—but I will find time. I want to.” 

Finstock’s knocked his elbow against hers. 

“As long as you’re not pitying an old man. You’ve always got a place at the bakery.” Kira’s hands slipped off her cart. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, what’s got you out so late?” 

They shopped together, checked out together, and ended up outside in the parking lot together. The cold air brought color to Finstock’s cheeks as he leaned against her car. The moonlight was kind to his skin as Kira talked about her archiving with Peter. She showed him the many thin cuts from turning pages too quickly and the odd calluses that came from sword and book work. 

There weren’t many creatures of Old Time in Beacon Hills. As far as Kira knew, the Sheriff, her mother, and Finstock were it. Pleasantries were a forgotten art, lost against the vastness of time. Even her mother had trouble focusing on day-to-day changes. 

Finstock’s eyes never glazed over. He dedicated his focus on whomever he was talking to, and not just with Kira. Watching him _stop everything_ to give someone his full attention was spellbinding. 

“It’s good to see you.” It was like they were back on the subway, shoulder to shoulder—suspended as intimate strangers. Yet Kira knew that it shifted and changed. They were getting to know each other, first by name and now by the rest. His touch on her arm was a gentle squeeze as he smiled in the flickering lamplight. “It’s been a while since I’ve had to make new friends, but I’m happy to do it all again.” 

A bulb a few rows down popped and sent down twinkling sparks, but neither of them noticed. 

:::::

Snow drifted down and caught on the folds in Isaac’s scarf. He gripped his armful of potted herbs tightly and stepped out of Erica’s old Volvo. She held a clumsily wrapped present to her chest. 

“I’m sorry my heater is broken. Hopefully the old Wiz has a fire going.” Erica bounded to their boss’s front door. Isaac followed her as she knocked her fist against the wood twice before opening the door. “I’m letting us in because it’s cold as shit outside!” 

Despite the brash tone, Erica still hesitated before she pushed the door open. Warm air and spices chased away the winter chills. Isaac put his presents down on the coffee table and followed Erica as she investigated the wizard’s house. 

It was cozy, just the right size to easily see most of the rooms. Books lined newly built shelves but it appeared the Finstock had run out of space because there were several boxes of books still stacked along the wall. 

The kitchen was big and the most complete. Erica and Isaac hovered in the doorway. Pots boiled, saucepans sizzled, and Isaac instinctively gravitated to the cutting boards. He grabbed a knife to begin to prep the ingredients, but Finstock whirled around from a mouth-watering stew to shoo them out. 

“Oh no, you’re not at _work_. I’m going to serve you. You two get comfortable. Nose through all my stuff, take your shoes off, and relax.” 

Isaac’s hole-ridden sneakers slumped next to Erica’s boots. It took them five minutes to view his house and only seconds to find the un-built bookshelf that remained in a box outside of Finstock’s bedroom. Without a word they brought it into the living room. They sat on the floor and followed the instructions. 

Erica had changed. 

Isaac didn’t have room to judge, they’d barely spoken before they both worked at the bakery. Isaac knew Erica as a quiet Beta who wore a lot of grey sweatshirts. The longer they worked the more color she wore, her jokes sharpened, and her smiles were quick to appear. 

He held the shelves steady as Erica screwed them in place. Her painted nails bumped against his knuckles. 

“You look far away.” Isaac wasn’t used to having a friend. She pulled the box of books toward her and began to fill the lower shelves. “What’s on your mind?”

Even her speaking to him was different. It had stopped being awkward and stilted long ago, and Isaac found himself smiling for the first time in years when he was at work. It made the dark hours when he’d have to go home more bearable now that he had something to look forward to. But he was still the same skinny, tall wisp of a half-fae. He worried that if he hadn’t changed like Erica, that Finstock would get bored, or maybe there was no hope of Isaac _getting better_ —maybe he really was a freak like his father said—

“Hey.” Claws gently carded through his hair. He met her intense gaze and furrowed brows. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Isaac said too quickly, and he stood to put books on the shelves Erica couldn’t reach. He wished his hands could be steady. “You’ve changed.” Before her smile could fade away Isaac pushed through his observations. “Not in bad way, it’s just—you’re happier, right? You wear more color and you seem more comfortable.” Isaac swallowed, the back of his neck hot and sweaty. “I wonder if I’ve changed at all.” 

He didn’t feel different. He felt the same nauseating fear when his shift would end and he’d have to go home. He still wished to be invisible to everyone. He felt adrift, like a dandelion seed in a storm. Erica was a werewolf through and through— maybe it was Isaac’s human half that kept him bound. 

His mother had insisted that humans were extraordinary in their own right… but when Isaac had to go home to his father he saw nothing extraordinary about him. Isaac knew when people looked at him and averted their eyes they did it in memory of his fae mother—so beautiful with a singing voice like an angel, who’d left behind a human husband and a half-fae son. He didn’t blame them; he didn’t like looking at himself either. 

“Are you serious?” Erica nudged him but it did nothing to hide the waver in her voice. “You have. You never smiled before and you sing.”

Isaac nearly dropped his book.

“I’ve been singing?” 

He hadn’t realized. He hadn’t sung in such a long time… since his mother died. 

“Yeah. What, you thought the vines on the outside wall just appeared? And all the flowers that bloomed in the summer—that was you, Isaac.” 

When Isaac was young he would sing with his mother in the garden. He thought his mother was being nice when she insisted that he sing with her to help the flowers grow. After she passed away the garden withered and died. Isaac hadn’t felt the desire to sing since. He swallowed and before he could hide his face Erica hugged him. He froze and she ran her hands down his stiff spine. 

“I’m _finally_ done.” Finstock stumbled out of his kitchen. He looked up to see his completed shelves and his grin softened. “You kids… you didn’t have to help me unpack, geez.” 

“We didn’t,” Erica raised her chin, “but we did it anyways.” 

Finstock shook his head but when he brought them in for a hug his grip was tight. He was so warm, and though he was loud and tactile he never felt dangerous. His smiles were infectious, his laughter manic, and his recipes a sensuous delight. 

“You two are ridiculous. Come on, let’s eat!” They ate in the kitchen, which had been cleared to make space for plates on the small table. “I made a cold couscous salad, rabbit stew, green beans, and some mango sherbet for dessert.” 

Finstock was an odd man; perhaps the oddest person Isaac had come across. He didn’t seem to understand the concept of moderation. He was either happy or miserable, he was fine, or swearing like he’d caught fire. He took extreme pride in his craft, and yet was humble in everything else. Usually such entropy would terrify Isaac. He had _enough_ chaos at home, but Finstock’s eccentricity never hurt anyone. 

And if Kira liked him—if she could look into his aura for hours, then Isaac supposed Finstock earned his place in Beacon Hills. 

The food was rich and just the right amount of decadent. Finstock loaded up Tupperware with leftovers as Erica cleared her throat. 

“We got you presents.”

Isaac went first with his tiny herb garden. 

“I’m sure you already have a garden but—fresh herbs are always best. They uh,” he brushed his fingers along the leaves before he pushed the pot over to Finstock. “They like to listen to Bowie and The Bee Gees.”

“Oh they do, huh?” Finstock waggled his eyebrows. Isaac ducked his head down as Finstock ruffled his hair. “Thank you, Isaac.” Erica bounced in her chair with a sharp smile. “All right, what have you got?”

Eric opened the box and carefully took out a bouquet of dried flowers tied together with a special ribbon from Deaton.

“You’ve made a real home here, and it’s—it’s great to have you in Beacon Hills or whatever.” Erica rolled her eyes to cover up her sincerity. “Tie these above your bedroom entranceway.” Isaac peered over. She had azaleas, black-eyed-susans, ivy, and red roses strung together. Isaac flushed as Erica winked. “These will help you catch your pretty fox.” 

“Erica.” Isaac hissed, “I’m sure Finstock doesn’t need help with—”

“Wow.” Finstock took the dried flowers. “Thanks, I think.” Finstock took away their plate and put Isaac’s herbs in the window before he grabbed some twine to hang Erica’s flowers. “I didn’t get anything physical for you guys, but I wanted to float something by you.” 

He hammered in a nail to tie the twine around and soon the dried bouquet spun just outside of his bedroom door. He turned to them, his shoulders tense. 

“Going forward, one day out of the month we will alternate between you two. What I mean is,” Finstock paced. “Once month would be your month, Isaac, and you pick a day and we’ll close up the bakery and do whatever you want. If you just want a day to yourself, that’s fine too. And the following month would be yours, Erica.”

Finstock was harsh to customers that tried to text and order at the same time, and he still held a grudge against Peter Hale for talking too loudly on his phone—yet when it came to his employees his kindness was unbelievable at time. He cooked for them, defended them, and never took their tips. 

“I’ve worked shitty jobs. Even my last one, it paid splendidly, but people took everything so seriously.” Isaac and Erica shivered. They always did when Finstock spoke of his past. “I want to make sure that I don’t do that again. I thought this would help. We can just take the day off—or we could all do something together like go on a hike or go to the city.”

Finstock’s house was warm, safe, and more of a home than Isaac had ever known. It was easy to pretend that life had always been wonderful. Isaac could pretend that he _always_ ate well, that he played board games, that he had friends who laughed with him—that he wasn’t alone. It was intoxicating; the idea that life could always be like this. 

Hours passed and since they both had stayed too long, Isaac offered to walk home so Erica didn’t have to waste more time—which was how Isaac found himself in Finstock’s car with the heat on blast. 

“Here,” Finstock flipped open the air vents, “hold your hands up to the heat.” 

The moment Isaac stepped out of Finstock’s house all feeling of warmth vanished. He put his fingers against the vents but felt nothing as Finstock drove through light snow flurries. Isaac felt his house draw closer, a long dark specter on the horizon. He knew Finstock was talking to him, but it wasn’t until they rocked to a stop in Isaac’s driveway that he could hear him. 

“Isaac, are you all right?”

Isaac shivered and he rubbed his hands together. 

“Yes, I’m fine. Just cold.”

His teeth clacked together and clipped his tongue. He winced at the taste of blood. He felt his house’s pull; he knew he was late, that his father would be _waiting_. His hands shook as he opened the car door, snow drifting in. He hoped Finstock didn’t notice the broken flowerpots or the peeling paint on the door. 

Finstock gently held Isaac’s arm, his touch a warm bloom against Isaac’s skin. 

“Isaac.” Isaac turned to see that Finstock’s smile was gone and that his eyes were sharp, focused. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He glanced towards Isaac’s home, toward the dark windows where his father stood just out of sight. Finstock swallowed and his grip tightened. “You don’t have to go home if—if you don’t want to. I’ve got a couch, hell, I’ll find someone else who has a couch if you’re not comfortable with me.”

Isaac’s skin was clammy with cold sweat and his trembling worsened. 

“I’m fine.” 

His mother, in her beauty and grace, had asked Isaac to protect his father when she wasn’t able. _“Humans have a bad reputation, he’ll need you to stick up for him.”_ Isaac could only imagine what a wizard like Finstock could do to a weak and ordinary human. Finstock never looked away, his gaze ancient and weary. 

“You don’t have to lie to me.” 

Finstock was so warm Isaac’s almost confessed everything; he almost closed the door and pleaded to stay in Finstock’s house. But as his fingers brushed the door handle he remembered his mother singing, how _happy_ she’d been with his father… 

He pulled his arm free from Finstock’s fingers. 

“I’m telling the truth,” Isaac lied. “Thank you for dinner and the ride.” 

He left the car and stepped into the outstretched shadow of his house. When his door closed behind him all the lights were out but he could hear that the television was on. He waited until he heard Finstock pull out of the driveway. 

His father’s lumbering footsteps approached. Isaac felt a brief, hollow swell of victory that the wizard believed him before his father grabbed him by the arm. 

::::

Finstock sped home and left his car running as he ran inside. He stripped and pulled on clothes from his old life—boots and black pants and a shirt tailored for maximum flexibility as well as defense. He took his trusty knife and his glock. 

Maybe he should mind his own business—God knows Finstock had turned the other cheek many times before. Everyone had at one point in their lives and pretended that willful ignorance was taking the high road. 

He drove back to Isaac’s house no more than a half hour later, and pulled his car over a quarter of the mile down the road. His boots crunched over the snow, the moon illuminating his path until it shone silver. He snuck around the back and picked the lock within seconds. 

Once inside Finstock took off his boots and left them tucked away by the door. He let his eyes adjust to the dark and he shivered at how _cold_ the house was. The back door connected to a sunroom, but all the plants had long since rotted away leaving spiderwebs in the pots. Finstock clenched his fists as he turned into the hallway. 

There were two staircases, one leading to the second floor and the other to the basement. Finstock crouched at the entranceway of the living room. 

An older man sat in the chair, slouched and watching the news with mild interest. He breathed heavily. His knuckles were bruised and bloody. 

In his old job the compartmentalization of emotions had been necessary. Finstock felt rage in him but he kept it at a distance until he could let it burn properly. He had to find Isaac. 

He went upstairs and moved silently from room to room. Isaac’s room was at the end of the hall and it was empty. Finstock lingered, his eyes on the unmade bed with sheets too thin for the winter and pictures on the wall of a smiling boy and his mother. Grief joined his rage. He crept back down the stairs, checked on Mr. Lahey, and moved to the basement. 

Musty mold-tinged smells made Finstock grimace. He didn’t risk turning on the light, but took out his phone and let the screen illuminate his path. Children’s toys and gardening tools were strewn all over the floor and were covered in dust and dirt. Finstock saw no one hiding in the corner, no muffled cries, and no—

On the far side of the basement was a refrigerator. It hummed in low ominous tones. Finstock drew closer, a ghostly tremor overtaking his hand as he saw a smear of blood on the edge. Finstock pocketed his phone roughly and pulled at the latch, only to be stopped by a padlock. The key was still inside. 

With a twist and yank, Finstock tossed the lock aside and pulled the door open. 

Isaac laid inside, bloodied and pale. He flinched, his eyes a bright violet and the tears that streaked down his face shimmered unnaturally, they were almost _teal_. Finstock would have recoiled it if weren’t for Isaac’s eyes blinking into dizzy focus. 

“F-F-Finstock?”

He hiccupped and Finstock reached into the icebox and pulled his protégé out, grunting at his dead weight. Isaac sobbed quietly, swallowing most of the noise as he tucked his face into Finstock’s shoulder. 

“Easy, kid.” Finstock hugged him, leaning against the refrigerator. He let his chest unclench once Isaac began to shudder as heat returned to him. “I got you.” He wasn’t sure how long they stayed in the basement, Finstock giving Isaac his body heat until the young man was able to step away and wipe the turquoise from his eyes. Finstock smiled when Isaac fixed him with an incredulous gaze. “Come on, we’re leaving.” 

“W-Wait.” Isaac whispered, his eyes _bright_ in the dark. “P-Please don’t kill him.” 

Questions flickered on the tip of his tongue but he had to save them for later. He nodded and let his rage unfurl. He led Isaac up the basement stairs.

He wasn’t surprised to see Mr. Lahey hulking in the hallway. Isaac pressed himself against the wall. Finstock smiled at Isaac’s father. 

“Who the fuck are you?”

Flecks of spit clung from Mr. Lahey’s lips. He was big, but Finstock saw how the man held himself and how he distributed his weight. His smile widened. 

“Me? I’m just a friendly neighbor.” 

He wouldn’t kill him but Finstock didn’t mind breaking some bones. He stepped forward as Mr. Lahey charged, a sweaty dumb bull. Finstock’s first hit Mr. Lahey’s stomach before he second broke his nose. 

Within ten minutes Finstock had Mr. Lahey’s wrists bound behind him to the banister. Mr. Lahey cried loud, ugly tears and vomited. Isaac stayed in the corner and Finstock draped his jacket over the kid’s shoulders. 

“You didn’t have to do this.” 

Isaac’s voice was thin and Finstock wished he’d moved to Beacon Hills sooner. Finstock buttoned up the jacket. 

“I couldn’t just leave you here.” Finstock glanced at Mr. Lahey and his black eye, broken nose, and split lip. “I’ll admit, my only real plan was to get you out of here… but I guess now we should call the Sheriff.” Finstock heard Isaac inhale sharply but he didn’t think anything of it as he secured the last button. “Once he’s here I’m sure I’ll be under some heat, but I think I have a fair case for self defense and being a Good Samaritan.” 

“You’d be correct in that assumption.” Finstock froze. The Sheriff’s raspy voice was _right behind him_ but that couldn’t be possible. Finstock turned and sure enough the Sheriff stood in the foyer in full uniform. The Sheriff took off his hat and the lights flickered on throughout the entire house. Mr. Lahey began to blubber and plead with God. The Sheriff glanced at Finstock. “Looks like you’ve had an exciting evening.” 

Years of training and experience had Finstock fall back on the need to _blend in._

“You could say that, Sheriff.” 

The Sheriff hummed and he glanced at Isaac then back down to Isaac’s father. There was a low hum and Finstock was able to keep his expression impassive as the Sheriff’s body elongated and became less physical and more shadow. Antlers grew and his eyes burned a deep, dark red. 

Mr. Lahey began to scream. Finstock was barely able to keep from joining him. 

::::

Hours later Finstock drove to the bakery at one in the morning despite not being open for four more days. He unlocked the back door and gripped a can of gasoline in his hand. His heart thundered in his chest as he stood atop the desk to take out the hidden bundles of cash in the ceiling. 

A roar of white static had filled his ears and it vanished once his feet touched the ground. 

Whenever he closed his eyes, even for just a moment, he saw the Sheriff, _whatever he was_ , standing up tall and moving _through_ the wall. He couldn’t forget how Sheriff sighed and said, _“I’m going to have to get more eyes on this. Mayor, Assistant Mayor, I need you.”_ His voice, which had been a weary drawl, was now a cacophony of sounds broken down and reformed into words. The Sheriff’s voice had been sewn out of water spilling over pebbles and wind blowing through dead autumn leaves. 

Moments after he’d spoken their titles, Mayor Lydia Martin appeared as well as Stiles. Stiles was the only who was caught off guard judging by his kiss-stung lips and the hastily adorned robe monogrammed _PH_. The Mayor gazed over the room in silence and eventually stopped on the increasingly hysteric Mr. Lahey. 

Stiles rubbed his eyes. 

“Geez. All right, what’s the story, Pops?”

“Mr. Lahey,” the Sheriff spoke in his impossible voice, “has been abusing his son. Mr. Finstock stepped in as any of us would have if we’d had such insight.” 

“I don’t know.” Stiles clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth and his skin bled ashen grey and his eyes became the same haunting red as his father’s. “You’ve shown more restraint than I would have, Finstock.” 

_Pardon the hands, that’s just the ghoul in me._

_Christ,_ he was surrounded by monsters. 

“I asked him to.” Isaac spoke quietly behind Finstock, flinching as their attention shifted to him. “I don’t want my father dead.” 

The Sheriff hummed low in his throat. 

“Very well, but I can’t permit him to continue living here. Mayor, do you agree?”

Lydia brushed her hair back and a glow came from her forehead. Finstock wanted to look away, but no one else seemed bothered by it except Mr. Lahey. Despite the discomfort, Finstock kept his posture relaxed as Lydia turned her gaze on Mr. Lahey.

“When I look at you, Mr. Lahey, I see no regret other than being caught. I don’t see a reason or an end for your son’s torment. I can’t, in good consciousness, let such a person remain in Beacon Hills.”

The light faded from her and she turned to Stiles. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them with a sharp-toothed grin. 

“You won’t hear any objections from me.” He knelt down in front of Mr. Lahey. “Now just relax, Mr. Lahey.” 

Mr. Lahey sobbed and twisted in his restraints. Finstock could only watch as the man pleaded. 

“P-Please, p-p-please—“=”

Blood and spit slurred his words. Stiles pressed his palms on either side of Mr. Lahey’s temples. 

“Think of it this way, Mr. Lahey, in a few moments you won’t be scared, you won’t remember any of this pain. It’s like being on a permanent spa.” Stiles’s eyes burned brighter, fading from red to milky lavender brilliance. Mr. Lahey’s breathing slowed and Stiles’s lips sang a soft lullaby under his breath as he pulled _something_ incorporeal out of Mr. Lahey’s temples. Within a minute Stiles took his hands away and stepped back from the unconscious Mr. Lahey. “He’s all yours, Sheriff.” 

Without a word the Sheriff snapped the restraints off and put his dark claws on Mr. Lahey’s shoulder. They both vanished without a sound. 

“Isaac, I would like it if you stayed with me tonight.” Mayor Lydia Martin smiled, sweet and sad. “You’ll be safe.” 

Isaac stepped forward and Finstock would have offered his place again—but the words dried up when he saw Isaac’s milky-white skin gain a lavender sheen. He took Lydia’s hand and they faded away into the shadows—and then Finstock was alone with Stiles. 

Stiles shook off his hands and his eyes stopped glowing. When he smiled at Finstock his teeth were still razor sharp. 

“What a night, huh?”

Finstock forced a chuckle from his throat and hoped his legs didn’t seem stiff. 

“What did you do to Mr. Lahey?” Finstock forced his voice into a casual lilt despite the internal screaming that had been rattling in his lungs for the past twenty minutes. “With the whole—”

He mimicked Stiles’s palms on either side of his head. Stiles smiled and squeezed Finstock’s shoulder. It took every fiber of discipline to not flinch away. 

“Shit, I’m sorry I keep forgetting your new to all this. Beacon Hills has been hidden from all those who don’t know its name. Within our circles,” Stiles gestured between them even though Finstock was positive that Stiles was mistaken, “it’s common. But Mr. Lahey was a human. The late Mrs. Lahey argued on his behalf to give him the name so he could live here. So I took Beacon Hills and every associated memory he’s had of it away.” 

Finstock felt sick. 

“How poetic.” Finstock swallowed despite his mouth being bone-dry. “Will he be all right? All those memories, that’s at least twenty years.” 

Stiles gently tugged on Finstock’s arm and walked him to his car. 

“People like us take care of each other and I’m sure humans are the same way with their own.” He said it with a grin that told Finstock he didn’t believe that in the slightest. Stiles’s fingers brushed over his bruised knuckles. “You’re not going to heal this?” 

Finstock yanked his hands away and he felt terror seize him as Stiles’s smile dropped. Before the Assistant Mayor could say anything, before he could get his hands anywhere _near_ Finstock’s temples, Finstock smiled. 

“Nope. The pain keeps me grounded. It builds character.” 

Stiles’s smile returned and he laughed. 

“You’re so Zen, Finstock. Get some sleep, I’ll see you when the bakery comes back from the holidays.” 

Stiles vanished into the night and Finstock had driven straight to the bakery, which was how he found himself unscrewing the cap on the gasoline container. He’d leave, he’d run. Clearly he’d left a secret society of killers only to stumble into something more dangerous—something that Finstock didn’t understand and wasn’t prepared for in the slightest. He’d burn it down, then burn his house, and then he’d go back to the city—or he’d go _anywhere else_. 

Gasoline sloshed in the can. Finstock walked along the display, past the newly decorated wall that Erica had sketched and painted, and past the customer “Thank You” bulletin where people would leave them sweet notes on napkins. 

Some were written words, but most had been drawn symbols, _wards_ they’d called them. 

In the witching hours, his heart still pounding, Finstock sealed the gas can.

He couldn’t run—because if he ran then they would know he’d been spooked and it wouldn’t take them long to figure out that he didn’t belong in Beacon Hills. He hadn’t gone through hoops to get the town’s name… it had just been given to him by a cute girl on the subway. Stiles and everyone else seemed to think Finstock _belonged_ there. 

Through dumb luck he’d managed to convince a town full of monsters that he was one of them. 

Finstock took out his phone and snapped pictures of the napkins. He’d stay, but he needed to know as much as he could about just _what_ he was dealing with. 

::::

In Chris Argent’s entire career he’d never met a man like Bobby Finstock. The man prided himself on absurdity and being loudly charismatic. Typically assassins were solitary and quiet unless among peers—yet Finstock wasn’t afraid to light up any room with raunchy stories. 

Chris understood why he left even without Finstock’s direct, _“I don’t want to become a grim, depressing asshole—no offense.”_

Working with him was a glimpse of levity even when they spilled blood. Chris felt ice seize his ribcage when Finstock arrived at his loft with a grim expression and a pink baker’s box. 

It was during a winter storm and Finstock still came, his skin stung red from the cold. His gaze was heavy with a severity that rattled Chris to his bones. 

“You’ve gained weight.”

Finstock blinked and laughed, loud and hoarse. 

“Well fuck you too, Chris. And after I made you a ginger and honey sweetbread… what a shame.” He pulled Chris into a tight hug. “It’s good to see you.” 

Finstock kicked off his shoes and shucked off his jacket. He made himself comfortable without waiting for an invitation. Chris hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed the man until he yanked a blanket off the couch and shuffled into the kitchen to start the teakettle. 

They drank tea and ate the sweetbread in silence. Snow fell outside and the city kept breathing. Finstock leaned back in his chair and Chris went to get binders. They were heavy and he opened them to the pages Kate had marked. 

“The symbols you sent me are varied in time and culture. Some date back to the Druids and Pagans.” Chris stood over Finstock and laid out his findings on the table. “They meant what you suspected,” Chris flipped through the translated neon post-its from Kate. “Well-wishing, prosperity, safe-keeping, and good health.” 

A soft smile washed the tense lines from Finstock’s face. 

“That was sweet of them.” 

“Bobby,” Finstock mouthed along to Kate’s translations under his breath as Chris ground his teeth, “I had Kate look at this because it’s her forte but… the people who practice this kind of thing and really believe in it can be dangerous.” He should know, his sister—while he loved her—made him uneasy the deeper she fell in love with the occult. “If it’s just a few people then I wouldn’t worry, you’re more than capable of handling a few crazies, but you said it was—”

“The whole town, yeah.” Finstock straightened and his warmth returned. “Thanks for checking up on this for me, Chris, but I’m not going to worry about it. Their hearts were in the right place.”

He stood and moved with a nonchalant grace that Chris had always envied. He pulled on his coat and boots. 

“Are you _sure_?”

“Yee-up.” Finstock shook himself out like a dog. “I was being an old gross boomer that had just seen a teenager with blue hair for the first time. All that stuff,” he scrunched up his face as if _that stuff_ —being his voice cracking over the phone at two in the morning and meeting Chris within the next few days—was not a big deal. “It was reactionary. Just had to widen my perspective. Got to stay hip.” 

Chris smirked despite his tight chest. 

“Maybe start with never saying _hip_ again.” 

Finstock laughed and hit Chris’s arm—a quick jab that showed despite the slight weight gain Bobby hadn’t lost his speed. He left like he usually did, loudly with bubbling laughter. It wasn’t until he was long gone that Chris realized he’d forgotten to ask for Finstock’s address. 

::::

Peter said that the easiest way to build affection with another person was to acquire an inside joke and establish a routine. When he’d pursued Stiles he’d been Machiavellian to the point where Kira worried it bordered on obsession. 

Kira realized she’d taken Peter’s advice but had done so without thinking about it. Every Tuesday and Saturday Kira would spend her afternoon translating at the bakery until Finstock’s shift ended. 

Spring showers made the air thick and humid. Kira pushed her sleeves up and massaged her temples. Thunder rumbled in the distance and no matter how much she rubbed her eyes her vision remained blurry—

“Here.” Finstock pushed a plate onto the table. French toast topped with blackberries and powdered sugar made her mouth water. “I might be running late but—eat this.” 

He hovered, his brow furrowed like he wanted to say more—but then there was a clatter and a loud, _“Shit!”_ from Erica and he was gone. Kira put her tomes away and pulled the plate forward, the fork heavy between her fingers. She listened to Finstock, Erica, and Isaac’s chatter. 

Thunder rolled closer and Kira felt it, the static in her ears rising to a roar. Her gaze slid to the windows, not staring out or in. The storm was coming and it pulled everything else out of her grasp until all she could do was grip the sides of the table and wait. She feared its approach as much as she craved it, a release of power. Maybe, if she were lucky, lightening would strike her directly and for that moment in time she could relax. 

“Kira?” Oddly calloused hands gently eased her fingers off the table. Someone stood in front of her and took her plate away. “Kira, can you hear me?” 

“I can hear you.”

The same hands hesitated before they touched her face, long fingers catching on her tear-streaked cheeks. They turned her, forcing her to lock eyes with Finstock. The static went away and Kira hiccupped, her chest heaving. Finstock steadied her. 

“Are you okay?” 

Erica and Isaac pressed close behind the counter, ready with wet towels and water. Finstock’s hands were so warm and Kira was going to keep _playing it cool_ like Peter had told her but… 

“No.” Rain fell outside as Kira covered Finstock’s hands with her own, fascinated by the feel of the spaces between his fingers. “I need to go home.” 

“All right.” Finstock took a deep, centering breath. His aura burned an anxious yellow around the edges. “Okay. I’ll drive you, will you be able to direct me?”

“I can write down directions, Finstock,” Erica spoke quickly, “just give me a second.” 

Usually storms weren’t enough to undo all of Kira’s control but that just meant that a _big one_ was coming. She closed her eyes as Finstock took his hands off her to grab his jacket and the directions, and when she opened them again they were driving and the rain was pouring in thick slippery sheets. She was soaked to the bone. 

“Keep talking.” Kira smiled though it didn’t put Finstock at ease. “Please? It helps.”

“Most people like it when I shut my mouth.” 

Kira wanted to count the wrinkles at the corners of his mouth and eyes. Rain and thunder hammered down on the car. Kira’s fingers caught on Finstock’s sleeve. 

“I like it when you talk.” 

The yellow tints on his aura bled into a rose gold that bubbled like champagne. There were days when Kira worried that someone like Finstock wouldn’t bother with romantic attachments. Kira must seem immature and unnecessary in the long run—but his aura—it made her grin and _hope_ even as Finstock parked the car. 

The rain was cold; the lightening so close as Bobby picked her up. She felt their heartbeats pulse together, her cheek pressed to his, and it was _electric_. Her legs hugged his waist and the thunder roared. She felt bits of electricity gather at her fingertips. 

“Kira?” Lightening struck fifteen feet away and left the smell of burning air in its wake. Her lips caught on the side of Bobby’s throat and her teeth brushed across his ear. Another lightening strike, closer, and Kira could feel it down to her tongue. “ _Kira_.” 

Peter always said she undersold herself but Kira didn’t realize how much until that moment. The sky crackled above them and Kira could _taste_ its power—she wielded it. She was _worthy_ of an ancient being like Finstock—she was—she was—

Kira leaned back. She cupped his face in her hands. His pale green eyes were wide. Lightening crept closer but he didn’t flinch, he never looked away from her—and she preened. Their hearts throbbed together as one when her fingers caught on his lips. It was only then that he inhaled sharply. 

She drew close and electricity danced from her lips to his. 

“I am worthy.” They were so close even the rain couldn’t get between them. She ran her fingers through his hair and wanted to eat the sound that it pulled from Bobby, she wanted to feel it against her _skin_. “I am—”

She woke up in bed stripped to her underclothes with her favorite blankets on top of her. 

Incense burned. Her limbs ached but she still sat up with a gasp. Her mother sat on the bed and gently brushed Kira’s hair from her face. 

“You’ve finally come back to us.” Kira nodded, relief flooding her body when she finally felt less unhinged and detached. Thunder still rolled outside, rain hitting against the glass windows. “Here, drink this.” 

Her mom held out a steaming cup. Kira greedily drank the ginger tea. The more she drank the more of the afternoon came back to her until she choked. She coughed. 

“Bobby—is he—?”

“He’s downstairs with your father.” Kira groaned and covered her face with her hands. Her mom slipped her arm around her and squeezed. “It’s always harder when you have a direction to aim your energy, especially if it’s someone you have great affection for.” Kira would burst into ash if her embarrassment burned any brighter. Her mother stood with a brief kiss to the top of her head. “He’s very odd. I see why you like him.” 

She left and Kira massaged the feeling back into her arms and legs. She got dressed in warm pajamas. She crept down the stairs and ventured toward the murmured voices from the tearoom. 

“—meant it, you should swing by the bakery. Even if I’m not there, Erica and Isaac are good kids, they’ll take care of anything you need.” 

Kira turned the corner to see her father smile wide at Finstock. 

“I’m sure they will.” He turned to her. “Kira, glad to see you’re feeling better.” 

Kira lingered in the doorway and jumped when Finstock stood abruptly, his knees knocking the table so hard that her dad had to grab the teacups quickly to keep them from spilling. He wore of her dad’s bathrobes and his hair was still damp and clung to the side of his face. 

“Are you okay?”

They both blurted out the question simultaneously. Her father did a poor job of hiding his laughter in his sleeve. He stood and clapped Finstock on the shoulder. 

“I’ll excuse myself. It was wonderful to meet you, Mr. Finstock.” 

Lighting flashed, not close, and the storm had lessened considerably. Kira worried her sleeve, leaning against the doorway to keep her legs from twisting with her nerves. 

“I’m so sorry. I should have been more observant of the weather. I thought I could handle it but obviously I couldn’t.” Kira forced herself to meet Finstock’s wide eyes. “Are you okay?” 

Finstock smiled and Kira’s chest loosened. 

“I’m fine, just glad you’re okay.” Kira stepped forward then stopped, but before she could fully retreat Finstock opened his arms and gestured for her to come forward. Kira hugged him, grateful to hear his heartbeat, to feel his body heat. “You were pretty out of it, huh?”

Yellow returned to his aura and Kira shook her head. 

“No. I remember it all.” She felt him stiffen and Kira immediately separated herself. She sat where her father had been and Finstock followed her example. “It was like being hyper-aware.” She took her father’s full teacup and then held the teapot. “I was overwhelmed, but I was still me.” She poured the tea until it overflowed into the saucer. “It’s still me—just _a lot_ of me.” She put the teapot down and her hands shook because she _had_ to continue. “Everything I did I wanted but—I never meant to put you in that position where you didn’t—you weren’t consenting to my proximity or… actions.” 

Shame curdled in her stomach. Her skin was still sensitive and it added to her feeling _ill_ until Finstock gently took her hand and rubbed this thumb over her knuckles. 

“I had an idea.” Kira blinked and Finstock arched an eyebrow. “You’re not great at hiding your feelings. It’s one of your best charms.” The pink champagne returned to his aura as he ducked his head a bit. “I thought might have been a passing thing. People get fleeting crushes all the time.” 

Kira turned her palm up so she could squeeze his fingers. 

“That’s not how I feel.” 

“I’m getting that now.” It felt like they’d first met, but now she knew his name, now he knew hers, and now—now his smile softened. “I’m old. I can’t remember the last time I dated _anyone_ —so to call me _charmingly rusty_ is overselling it.”

Kira frowned. 

“Okay.”

He must have felt her confusion. He helped her to her feet and as she regained her balance he leaned in and kissed her cheek. 

“Think it over. And once you have, let me know.” 

He borrowed an umbrella and when Kira kissed his cheek goodbye he fumbled with his keys. She had four missed calls from Peter and a stack of soggy tomes that needed to be carefully dried. Still, even as she called her boss back she couldn’t help but let her fingers linger on her cheek. 

::::

Kira hadn’t been to the bakery for a week and a half—and Erica and Isaac took notice. 

Finstock pretended he didn’t hear how their banter had softened, how they tiptoed around him. He threw himself into new flavors, the stranger the better. He whipped up creamy frosting and had his back to the door. The little bell rang and Isaac—sweet and slowly opening up _Isaac_ —said, “holy shit.” Finstock turned and almost dropped an entire bottle of vanilla extract into his mixture. Peter Hale and Kira Yukimura walked through the door. 

“Pick your jaw up off the floor, Isaac, it’s unbecoming.” Peter snapped, his eyes flashing blue as his teeth briefly elongated into fangs. “What’s something _special_ that you’ve made today?”

Isaac fumbled with his gloves, his eyes darting to Finstock until Peter snapped his fingers in front of Isaac’s nose. Normally Finstock would threaten to ban Mr. Hale for such rude behavior but he couldn’t look away from Kira as she came to lean across the divide. Finstock swallowed. 

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Her lower lip was chapped and a leaf was caught in her hair. Her fingers gripped the dividing door and Finstock felt _butterflies_ in his chest. He should feel fear because his lie (was it lying if he never corrected anyone when they assumed he was an _actual wizard_?) had gone too far. He should feel the consequences approaching like a tsunami of karma—he’d done terrible things and to overreach for a bakery _as well_ as Kira would tip the scales. He should have let her down gently and left town—but he’d never be able to forget the sweet girl on the train. “If you’re fine with me,” Kira said as if Finstock measured up to her in any way, “I’d like to date you.” 

He thought of every time the lights had flickered when she’d been in the room, of the static shocks that had jumped from her hand to his—and there was no place he’d rather be. 

“Yeah?”

He waggled his eyebrows despite his rapid pulse. Kira waggled her eyebrows right back before she snorted. 

“ _Oh yeah_.”

They both laughed. _Consequences be damned_ , Finstock thought as he cupped her warm cheek and leaned in—

Moments before their lips could meet, the lights went out only to flicker back to life rapidly. Finstock drew back. He cast a worried look at an equally confused Kira. 

“Everything okay?’

The lights continued to strobe and shadows gathered by the front door. Peter lost his smug demeanor. Kira swallowed. 

“It’s not me.”

Right at the end of her claim, Stiles appeared. His eyes shone bright lavender and his sharp teeth cut against his lips as he shrieked. 

“Of _course_ I’ll bond with you, asshole—next time just ask me and don’t send a notarized letter, oh my _God_!” 

Isaac reached for pearls he didn’t have to clutch while Peter flushed scarlet. 

“Paperwork is important—”

Stiles leapt into Peter’s arms and all the writing in liquid chalk became smudged as they kissed passionately against Finstock’s display. After a minute of wet kisses that even made Finstock blush, Stiles yanked himself back. 

“I want the full ceremony.”

Peter nodded, eyes wide. 

“Of course.” 

“I want forget-me-nots and sunflowers.”

“You’ll have them.”

“I want the cakes to be from here.”

“Naturally.”

Stiles fixed Peter’s rumbled collar, his eyes fading from violet to red. 

“You better hurry, the full moon is in five days.” He kissed Peter’s throat and the older man whimpered. “I love you.”

Stiles backed up and vanished with a short flickering of lights. Peter stood frozen, hair mussed and lips bruised. It wasn’t until Finstock cleared his throat that Peter leapt in to action. 

“Finstock, I’d like to place an order for some wedding cakes.”

“Oh you would?” Finstock couldn’t help himself, Peter could use a blow to his ego every once and a while. Peter glared at him and Finstock laughed. “Calm down. Step on back into my office.” 

He turned to Kira but she mouthed, “Go,” and squeezed his hands. 

Peter wanted four three-tier cakes and a slew of cupcakes, and of course extended invitations along with a check that made Finstock’s eyes widen. 

He had to close the bakery as he, Isaac, and Erica sweated it out for four days to deliver two cars worth of sweets. Finstock slept in his office most days and only left to shower and buy more ingredients before returning to the bakery. 

He adjusted his tie and drove up the long, winding driveway to the Hale Preserve. There was already a sizeable crowd. Finstock’s body still ached from being bent over cakes, cupcakes, and tarts to make sure every detail was _perfect_.

“Finstock!” Erica shouted and had Isaac in town. “Come on, let’s get a good place to watch the ceremony.”

Bandages wrapped around all of their hands to cover the blisters that came from baking for four days straight. The lavender sky bled purple as they ventured across the grounds. Finstock followed the crowd to a clearing behind the house where Alpha Talia Hale stood with the equally regal Lydia Martin. 

Stiles and Peter sat before Talia and Lydia, their wrists bound loosely. The crowd formed a semicircle around the four of them. Once the moon peeked out from the horizon Talia cleared her throat and a hush washed over the witnesses. 

“Thank you for coming. We’re here to witness Peter and Stiles run anew, together, bound by our blood, moon, and love. Are there any objections to this union?” 

Stiles turned and winked. There were no objections and Lydia unveiled a certificate. 

“The city of Beacon Hills rejoices and recognizes the official marriage of Peter Hale and Stiles Stilinski.”

Talia gently tugged the silk that bound Stiles and Peter’s wrists. 

“As the moon and your peers as your witness, your are bound.” 

The fabric fell away and Peter kissed Stiles like a movie star, dip and everything. Everyone cheered, poppers went off, and music played. Finstock was gently pushed as wolves ran forward from the crowd. Peter had transformed with the rest of his Pack. Stiles flung off his polka-dotted bowtie and his skin shone silver under the full moon. When he laughed all Finstock could hear was the sound of crystal bells and birds.

A few feet away the Sheriff, in his terrifying antlered glory, dapped a handkerchief at his eyes. His glowing red eyes met Finstock’s and he smiled. Finstock smiled back. 

People in all forms danced, sang and drank around him. He turned to get a wider view of the merriment but was stopped by a hand at his waist. 

Kira turned him to her. 

“Hey.” Finstock smiled. “I was looking for you.” Her hands cupped his face and Finstock felt himself blush. Finstock couldn’t _remember_ the last time he blushed. “O-Oh.” 

Before he could berate himself for being so flustered, Kira went up on the tips of her toes as Finstock ducked down. Their noses bumped at first, but Finstock tilted his head and then they were golden. _Finally_ their lips came together. 

Static stung Finstock’s tongue and he couldn’t get over how she _gasped_ when Finstock pulled her lower lip between his teeth. He’d kissed his fair share of women over the years and he liked to think that all those kisses in their many forms and circumstances all helped him to this moment. He pulled back and his heart thudded when Kira swayed to follow him. 

“I’d like to take you to dinner.” 

“What?” Kira licked her lips. “Why?”

“I guess I’m old fashioned about some things.” 

Kira sighed. 

“I still want to kiss you.”

That troubling _squeeze_ returned, affection-happiness- _lust_ all wrapped up around his heart.

“You can kiss me whenever you want—”

She kissed him until he was weak in the knees. Erica whistled, Isaac clapped, and far off in his ancient voice the Sheriff chuckled a, “well done.” 

::::

Years ago on a sweltering summer’s day, Kira Yukimura had walked all the way up the Hale driveway to ask for an apprenticeship with Peter. She’d been sweating through her clothes and dizzy with heat exhaustion. Peter wouldn’t forget how flustered he’d been because the child of a _Kitsune_ wanted to study under _him_. Peter had said yes, more enthusiastically than was appropriate, before he welcomed her into the shade for cold towels and lemonade. 

Peter watched Kira grow from a quiet fox to a dorky and competent young woman. She’d blossomed under Peter’s sharp barbs about other Packs and she’d seen him through his crush, obsession, and marriage to the Sheriff’s son. 

If Peter were being honest, Kira was the one person who knew him the _most_. 

“Dinner? That’s adorably traditional.”

“It’s _cute_.” Kira insisted despite wringing her hands in front of Peter’ walk-in closet. After a year of her spending most nights at the Hale Estate, Peter had expanded his bedroom so that Kira had her own room and small office. The connecting door between them was their closet. “It still feels so far away and it’s only a few hours.” Peter pulled out a dress he’d gotten her three year ago, half a joke and half as an actual gift. “ _Absolutely not_.”

“What?” Peter tilted his head with a ridiculous innocent expression. “I think it’s wonderful.” 

“I know you do.” Kira snatched the lacey peach dress out of his claws. “Like you said, he’s _traditional_ , I don’t think this would make him comfortable.” 

“You don’t want him to be comfortable, Kira, you want him _hungry_.” 

He was aware they made an odd team, but Peter wanted a counterbalance. Where Peter thrived on manipulation Kira was there with genuine sincerity. He waited to see where her romantic tastes took her and for the longest time he respected her indifference to suitors. Those she did take on were brief. 

Peter lined up his nail polishes and waited for Kira to change. Kira hopped out with one boot on when her phone buzzed on the desk. Peter leaned to glance at the screen, blowing on his black and gold nails.

“It’s your man of the hour.”

“Oh God—okay.” Kira pulled on her other boot and grabbed her phone. She blew out a long breath and her cheeks were rosy. Peter watched with unrestrained delight as Kira licked her lips. Her heartbeat _soared_. She swiped her finger across the screen. “H-Hello, Bobby.” 

She was glowing, her smile wide—and Peter heard Finstock and his heart plummeted right along with Kira’s. All the light bulbs hummed as Finstock wheezed a mournful, “ _Sorry, sweetheart_.” 

Peter shuddered and a primal, wounded noise tore from Kira’s lips that he hoped to never hear again. Peter grabbed her hand. A massive shock went through him and her phone fried. 

::::

Tucked away deep in the city was a wonderful salon where all the hairdressers and barbers were covered in tattoos and sported neon-dyed hair. Finstock walked in with a pink sky behind him and his old stylist Tea squealed. 

“Oh my _God_ , Bobby—” She had two new tattoos but her teal hair remained the same. “Get in my chair, it’s so good to see you! Where have you been? What’s new?” 

Being back in the city was like walking through an old school. Finstock knew it like the back of his hand but he’d grown in such a way that he’d never be able to call it home again. Even having Tea cut his hair and give him a shave was an odd tradition from a city he left. 

He’d gone shopping. He bought a paint set for Erica, a rolling pin and whisk for Isaac, and flowers and champagne for Kira. He walked to the train and felt the foolish butterflies in his chest return. 

The train rattled. Finstock kept his bags on the seat next to him and the bouquet of hyacinth and ranunculus on his lap. The images of buildings lessened and soon green trees lined the train tracks along with lamps. Finstock leaned his head back to focus on his breathing—when a woman sat next to him.

He wouldn’t have paid her any mind until she pressed her knee to his to pin their legs together. He straightened, fumbling to catch his bouquet. Manicured fingers beat him to it and Finstock came face-to-face with Kate Argent. 

“Retirement looks _good_ on you, Bobby. Some girls are all about the body, but personally I _like_ some extra meat on the bones.” She squeezed his thigh. Her eyes glittered as the train rocked. “Tell me, cupcake, what have you been up to?” 

:::::

Fury, terror, and desperation flared brightly for a moment before Kira felt everything compress into a thin line. She shook the bits of plastic and Plexiglas out of her palm and helped Peter up off the floor. 

“Are you okay?” Peter nodded and Kira winced at his slightly frizzed hair. “Let’s go.” 

She pulled him out of his room and down the stairs. She grabbed his car keys off the hook. The minute they hit the night air Kira took a deep breath. 

“Sher—”

Peter clamped his hand over her mouth. 

“Be careful. Are you sure he’s our best option?” 

Kira let his hand slide from her lips. 

“He’s the only one who can track him, he’s got to know forbidden runes—”

“ _Forbidden_ , Kira. He never breaks the law.” Before Kira could let the storm close in, Peter spoke quickly. “Luckily, I know someone who’s more flexible when it comes to breaking the rules— _Assistant Mayor_.” Peter spoke firmly and within the same breath Stiles appeared. “Finstock is in trouble and sounds badly injured, but he’s outside of Beacon Hills. Do you have any runes that can take us to him?”

Stiles went grey up to his ears and looked ill. 

“I mean, Dad and I have practiced but only short distances and tracking, like a couple of _feet_.” Stiles lowered his voice. “And I shouldn’t even be telling you guys this. It’s _old_ stuff, out of practice and it doesn’t exactly comfort citizens to know just how far Old Time creatures can reach.” Stiles wrung his hands. “The old Wiz is really in trouble?”

“ _Yes_.” Kira’s throat tightened to the point of agony. “Stiles, _please_ —”

“Yeah, yeah. You’ll be taking Peter’s car? Just—give me a second.” 

Stiles walked to Peter’s car, Kira and Peter in tow, when an older voice came from behind them. 

“It’s not just the journey that’s dangerous.” Kira froze. She turned slowly to see the Sheriff staring at the three of them with red eyes. “There aren’t many creatures that can go up against a wizard. You’ll have to be ready to face that threat, as well as the possibility that you might be too late.” 

The Sheriff spoke in his usual, gentle voice like old oak trees creaking in the wind. She tilted her chin up, feeling small in the shadow of all that time and knowledge. 

“Then whatever it is better be ready for me.”

She could be arrested for coercing Stiles into performing illegal magic. If he deemed it wise, the Sheriff could banish her. She tasted the bitter possibility but refused to look away as he weighed her words. Peter cleared his throat. 

“You won’t be alone.” 

Kira started with shock. They were friends but Peter had a husband now, his life was dedicated to Stiles. He rolled his eyes at her surprise. Stiles blinked, then whispered. 

“Me too.”

Time kept moving and it felt like an eternity as the Sheriff watched them. After studious silence the Sheriff bowed his antlered head. 

“Very well. I will get you there. You’ll have to manage coming back on your own. Get in the car.” 

Peter grabbed the keys, Stiles snuggled up to him, and Kira squeezed next to them on the other side. The classic car had been Peter’s _baby_ (“Not a _car_ , Kira, it’s a Jaguar XKI150 Roadster.”) and Peter didn’t bat an eye as the Sheriff scratched symbols into the side with his long claws. 

“ _Thank you_.” 

Kira breathed as the Sheriff kept his fingers on the car. He glanced up at her, almost curious at the plights of those not weathered and weary. 

“He makes great food. Get ready.” Peter started the car and Stiles whispered a soft prayer. Kira gripped the car and braced herself. The Sheriff growled. “Go.” 

Peter slammed down on the gas and Kira didn’t have time to catch her breath as the impossible ether opened up before them. They flew forward as the gaping maw of the Sheriff’s reach swallowed the squeals of burning rubber. 

Beacon Hills returned to its tranquil silence. 

::::

Finstock went to remove Kate’s hand but she wove their fingers together and leaned in close to whisper in his ear. 

“I know you’ve found their hidden city, their sanctuary.” Her knuckles were white as her nails dug into his thigh. “And I just want to know how _you_ found it.”

She held Kira’s bouquet. Finstock smiled. 

“Kate, I don’t know—”

“Sweetie.” She licked his ear and increased the pressure on his thigh. “You know me. I don’t play coy. So tell me your secrets and maybe you’ll get to go on that date you’ve been so excited about.”

Kate played with her food; she thrived off a mark pissing themselves right before the light faded from their eyes. Finstock didn’t like wasting time. He grabbed the bottle of champagne and shattered it against her jaw. 

By the time Kate screamed Finstock was already in the other car, sprinting to the back of the train with the broken bottle in his hand. The train’s lights flickered and they were twenty minutes from the next stop, another hour from Beacon Hills. He shoved past people, purses, and bags, and he heard bullets fly. People began screaming when Finstock got two cars back. 

Kate bellowed his name as he broke the glass to the final door and shoved it open. Without hesitation Finstock leapt into the dark. 

For a brief intoxicating stretch of time, he floated. The stars were at his back, the wind in his hair, and his date was waiting for him. 

Gravity pulled him back to reality as his knees hit the railing painfully and he rolled down to the side. He slid down the hill of soot. He didn’t let the momentum go to waste and scrambled to his feet. He took off into the thick forest. 

After five minutes of running he stopped and hid. He let his eyes adjust to the dark. His ears relearned the language of summer peepers and cicadas. After he got his heart rate under control he began to feel his injuries, deep gashes on his knees and shins, and his ribs ached in a way that had to be bruising. 

Kate was going to give him the fight of his life. She was an Argent and Argents killed whoever got in their way. Finstock took out his phone. It rang twice before Kira answered in a beautifully breathless smiling voice that made every ache in Finstock’s body amplify. 

“Sorry, sweetheart.” His voice was thick, shaky, and worn. He heard Kira’s breathing slow and he could easily see her troubled frown. “I don’t think I’m going to make our date tonight. It’s not because I don’t want to,” Finstock swallowed despite the terrible lump in his throat. “Something awful has come up and I gotta take care of it.” 

Once he heard her breath catch he hung up. He couldn’t hear what she had to say with a tear-ridden voice because he’d lose focus. He pocketed his phone. Twigs snapped and the chase was on. 

::::

Stiles gasped as they came through the other side within a blink of an eye. Peter steadied the car. They were on a long stretch of country road, not a light or car in sight. Stiles let Kira grip his shoulder as she got up on her knees. 

“Shit!” Peter yelped. Finstock ran into the middle of the road and a woman chased after him, cackling. They were both covered in blood and Peter jerked the wheel to narrowly avoid them. “ _Shit_!” 

Peter turned the car in a dangerously tight twist. The air blossomed in humid heat and static stung Stiles’s shoulder. Just as the car squealed to a stop, the woman surged forward with a knife and she pierced Finstock’s stomach. Stiles shrieked and Kira was silent. Finstock grunted, blood pushing out between his teeth as his lips curled up and he gripped the woman’s arm tight to hold her in place. 

In the Jaguar’s high beams, Finstock twisted her arm, knife still inside him, until the bones snapped. 

Kira leapt out of the car and her first lightening strike came down, cracking the pavement thirty feet away.

“Kira!” The sky had been clear moments ago, but now clouds rippled and spread in rumbling violence. Stiles pulled himself out of the car as his husband sat with his mouth agape. Kira turned to glance at them over her shoulders, her eyes opal white. “Kira!” 

::::

She had a gun and Finstock had a broken champagne bottle. Kate tackled him and whipped him in the teeth with her pistol. Finstock didn’t give himself time to reel. He kicked her in the ribs.

He knocked the gun out of her hand and when she went to grab it he brought the broken bottle down on the fleshy skin that connected her neck to her shoulder. 

She yowled and slammed her head against his. Spots of white bled across his vision and she used his moment of weakness to knock him onto his back. 

“Tell me how you got there and I’ll let you go.” Bits of green glass glittered on her face, her eyes wild under the crescent moon. “I’ve been looking for this place my entire life and you got there by dumb fucking luck?” She grunted and pressed her knees against his ribs until he heard the bones creak. “Come on, Bobby, you don’t owe them shit. I bet they don’t even know you’re human.” 

He wheezed, his eyes welling at the horrible truth that came from her bloodstained lips. He grabbed her hips and threw her, and he should have continued to fight until they both burned… but the shame made him turn and run. 

Blood loss made him sloppy and he found a stretch of road. The headlights from Peter’s Jaguar really shouldn’t have surprised him because of _course_ Beacon Hills would witness him at his lowest. He turned and let Kate land her final blow so he could land his. 

Lightening crackled and Kate wailed with a broken arm. Finstock sat out of her reach. She forced a smile as she laid on her back on the sizzling asphalt. Every heartbeat was an enormous effort. 

Someone faraway called his name. 

Kate coughed. 

“They don’t keep humans long, Bobby.” 

Static-ridden arms grabbed him. He leaned his head on Kira’s shoulder and got a look at her outfit. 

“You look beautiful.” 

He blinked and the next thing he knew the wind was in his matted hair, Kira was on his lap, and Stiles slapped him awake. 

“Wake up and _heal_ yourself for fuck’s sake!” Stiles’s voice broke and even Peter looked worried. Kira applied pressure to his stomach and her pretty hands were stained red. Finstock shook his head and Stiles hit him again. “Asshole, this isn’t the time for your ironic Zen bullshit, you’re losing too much blood—just use some magic, man, come on.” 

“The only spell I know is 9-1-1.” Stiles’s mouth hung open. Finstock’s eyes burned and he had trouble focusing. “I can’t heal. I’m not—I’m a human.” Kira gasped and her hands pulled away from his stomach. His eyes slid shut. He didn’t want to see the truth hit them. “I need a hospital.” 

He needed to rest his eyes. Just for a minute, and he’d be up, he wasn’t sleeping, just resting his eyes—

:::::

When Finstock regained consciousness he was in his bed and his face and hair had been washed clean of dried blood. He cracked his eyes open and rubbed the crust out of his eyes. 

“Please be careful. Deaton is a wonderful healer but you’re the first human he’s had to perform surgery on.” Mayor Lydia Martin spoke from the chair by his bed and Finstock froze. He swallowed, his mouth bone-dry. She got up and retrieved a glass of water from his bedside table. “Drink this slowly.” 

She cradled his head with one hand and touched the glass to his lips with the other. After several sips and some sputtering she returned it to the table. Finstock grunted, biting his lips to keep from shouting when he tried to sit up. It sent white shocks of pain through his abdomen and chest. Lydia helped, propping him up with pillows as she did her best to not cause him unnecessary pain. 

“I still remember you.”

She regarded him with a flat long stare. He resisted the urge to squirm when her forehead began to glow when her third eye opened. The feeling of being _known_ raked over his skin. 

“You were afraid at first but decided to stay.” Her lips twitched. “Your past is quite colorful as well.” 

She _knew_ what he’d been.

“And you’re still going to let me stay?”

He watched her eyes slide from his as she stood, brushing off her pencil skirt and sharp blazer. Her third eye closed and she sighed. 

“You’ve proven to be quite the character. Usually, in a situation such as yours I would have preferred to allow you the option to keep your humanity a secret. However, thanks to your position with Beacon Hills—the entire town knows.”

She smiled so briefly that if Finstock had blinked he would have missed it. She lingered by the door.

“But—I was an assassin.” 

The word sounded vulgar and for the first time it made his cheeks flush. Lydia raised an eyebrow. 

“You’ve retired haven’t you?” Finstock nodded, light-headed. “Then I don’t see a problem.” 

She turned with a flick of her hair and opened his bedroom door. A flood of people rushed past her to be by his side. Erica, Isaac, Stiles, Peter, the Sheriff, and so many customers. Finstock had trouble keeping the names straight. Flowers filled his house and though it hurt to hug, Finstock did it anyway. Erica and Isaac were the last to leave, and then… 

Kira hovered in the doorway under the dried flowers. She reached up to give them a spin. 

“I’m sorry.” Finstock stuttered, his harsh rasp too loud. “I’m so sorry, Kira. You don’t have to stay, you don’t have to go to dinner, it’s okay—really.” Kira turned, her eyes wide. Finstock forced himself to summon his best crooked smile. “Honest.” 

She kept walking closer and Finstock was sure he smelled awful and that his eyes looked crazier than usual. His breath caught when she sat on the bed. 

Her fingers brushed over his knuckles and when she wove them together he couldn’t hide his trembling. 

“I don’t have anything clever to say.” She kissed his knuckles, then the inside of his wrist where her lips lingered on his pulse. “I’m just… I’m glad you’re okay.”

This time Kira was the one who comforted him, brushing away the stray tears from his cheeks. He thought that maybe the reality hadn’t hit her yet: that at the end of the day there was no otherworldly excuse for his weirdness. 

He held her close despite how it pulled against his stitches. 

::::

Finstock emptied piping bags into tubs of icing as Erica and Isaac kept refusing to let him do any heavy work. 

“Guys, I’m _healing_ , not infirm.” Finstock hit Erica with a whisk when she took a tub of icing away. “I’m basically back to normal!” 

“Please,” Isaac smirked and the fact that the kid was comfortable enough to do it made Finstock grin. “You’ve never been normal.”

The little bell over the door rang. Finstock looked up to see Kira smiling on the other side of the divide. 

“Hey.” Erica and Isaac cleared the room in an unsubtle manner. Erica _accidentally_ bumped the lights so they dimmed to mimic candlelight. Finstock ignored the heat in his cheeks and leaned his elbows on the dividing door. “How’s it hanging?” 

Sometimes he cringed at his word choices and that day was no exception. 

“Great, actually, Peter let me go early.”

She went up on the tips of her toes and drew him in for a kiss. Finstock smiled against his lips. Sometimes she kissed him on the lips, sometimes on the cheek, and sometimes not at all. He told himself eventually they’d just be friends. As he went to pull back to keep it chaste, Kira followed and licked the seam of his lips. 

Finstock gasped and that’s when she slid her tongue along his. Her fingers chased the delightful shivers that shot up his sine. She bit his lips and Finstock’s breath stuttered. When she pulled back a spark of electricity jumped from her lips to his. He soothed the sting with his tongue and caught her eyes following the movement. 

“That was really nice.”

Finstock babbled, his brain still catching up from the overwhelming spiral of affection. Kira’s smile widened and she rocked on her heels. 

“So,” she cleared her throat, “would you like to go to dinner with me tonight?” 

Behind him from the staff room Erica and Isaac high-fived. Finstock untied his apron and folded it, opening the divider with a smile. 

“Surely,” he held out his arm. “I’m at your disposal, Kira. Lead the way.” 

Kira looped her arm through his and pulled. She opened the door and they walked out into the crisp, floral night air. When Finstock glanced back Erica and Isaac flashed him cheery thumbs-up signs and grins. 

He let the feeling of _home_ take root in his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> I blame Mal for this. I blame myself for this. 
> 
> This was a monster trying to wiggle around exposition and world building. I had a lot of fun writing it, I hope it's enjoyable, and I'm open to all thoughts. That said, I hope I did Kira justice and I know I didn't follow all the rules of her being a Kitsune. Please, pretty please, let me know what you think.


End file.
